


Shook Ones

by gloss



Category: Homestuck, Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: Finntrospection, Hand Jobs, M/M, Metanarrative, Prison, black Dave
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-08
Updated: 2017-03-08
Packaged: 2018-10-01 06:06:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,317
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10182452
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gloss/pseuds/gloss
Summary: Finn and Dave find themselves in extranarrative prison. Relatively non-ironic feelings, as well as orgasms, ensue.





	

**Author's Note:**

> idk, okay, I just love them both and this made sense somehow.

Every time Finn returns to their cell, even if he has just been gone for a piss or a quick run, his cellmate sits up and says the exact same thing: "So, stranger, what are you in for?"

He claims that this is just what you have to say when you're in prison. He doesn't make the rules, see, the rules were there long before he came along, he's just going with the flow. Surfing the rapids of the discourse, as you do.

Dave mumbles a lot; Finn doesn't understand much, but he does try. 

Most of the time, then, Finn plays along with the question game.

Sometimes, like now, he's just a little too tired. He pulls off his boots, lies back on the rock hard bunk, and folds his arms behind his head. He's a defector, he's a terrorist, he's a POW in a war far, far away. Take your pick from the possible charges. "Same thing as last time, same as always. You?"

"Unlicensed transport of moon-sized object. Unauthorized and reckless stellar nucleation. Wanton timeline hopping, knotting, and unravelling. Not to mention sick fucking beats and swag that just won't quit. Swag beyond its shelf-life, thumbing its nose at mandatory retirement age, swag that makes you reconsider everything you thought you knew about the passage of time and its effects on personal style."

Swag, from swagger: an aesthetic and an attitude, hustle and irreverence.

"Those last two, though. Those only count as imprison-able offenses for the small-minded sadistic bigots among us," Dave adds. 

"The rest of us consider you heroic," Finn adds with a smile. There's a certain kind of comfort in the familiarity of this exchange, something that goes beyond what they're saying.

Dave's burgundy cape blooms around him as he jumps off his bunk, like a bell surrounding him. He lands softly on the uneven rock of the floor, then joins Finn on his bunk. "Heroic, sure. Better: I'm a damn _god_ , my fine, fine man."

Finn squints up at the underside of Dave's bunk. "Whatever that is."

He jabs Finn in the calf, and after a moment, Finn shifts aside to let him in. "You do know. You just refuse to admit it. Holding out on me."

"Sure," Finn replies. "That's it."

"What do you want, baby?" Dave pulls himself along Finn's side, then braces his hand on far side so he can lean in and look down. His smile is tiny, flickering. A shadow, the suggestion of a smirk. "You want a ring? Is that it?"

Finn pushes him away -- not hard, just to make a point -- but Dave collapses across Finn's chest, chin digging into Finn's ribs. "Rose would probably say this is meaningful as all get out."

Dave has, or had, a friend, or a sister, or both, named Rose. She feels about as real to Finn as Rey does these days: that is, she's a memory kept alive by stories and references. A soul inscribed with breath and words, a wisp.

"What's that?" Finn asks.

"That I'm this into an actual hero who doesn't even believe in me."

Finn smiles a little. He has to ignore the middle part; heroism, he thinks, is a meaningless category. _That_ much he's learned since ending up here, thank you very much. The being "so into", though, is just about the only bright spot in this whole terrible turn of events. "I believe in you." He pinches Dave's arm, then squeezes the back of his neck. The skin on his nape is soft and _warm_ under Dave's pushed-back hood. "See? You're real."

Dave huffs out a breath. "Yeah, but -- tulpas, man! Meme magic. You've gotta believe _in_ me, otherwise god tier's just one more merit badge in a sequence of increasingly pointless achievements along a random ladder of arbitrarily-defined definitions of success!"

"I gotta or else...what?" 

Dave shrugs. "I dunno, it just feels important."

"I don't even believe in the Force," Finn reminds him. "An entirely different cosmos's ontology is a little out of my reach."

He wants to believe Dave. He'd love to believe that this guy can travel through time, help birth stars and drive moons, make phat rhymes and rock the turntables (whatever either of those things are).

But what's in front of Finn is a handsome kid. Several shades paler than Finn himself, a lot skinnier, bright and strange. Warm skin that compels Finn's hands, soft drawl that sounds like music out of a dream. He's a little younger, probably, than Finn. Not by much; Finn guesses he's about Rey's age, but Dave is vague on the details. When Finn's asked him, Dave has just lifted one shoulder, then the corner of his mouth. "Age ain't nothing but a number."

"Yeah, and I'm asking you yours," Finn said.

"Old as the hills, young as a sun."

"Forget it."

Dave pushed his dark spectacles up his nose and sang, "'I'm only nineteen but my mind is older/And when the things get for real my warm heart turns cold.'"

"So you're nineteen?"

"Sort of. Hard to say. 'As a kid I killed two adults, I’m too advanced/I lived my twenties at two years old, the wiser man/Truth be told, I'm like eighty-seven.'"

Finn learned soon enough to stop asking direct questions. They just encouraged Dave to build up another wall of incomprehensible words.

"I don't do magic," Finn says now, tugging Dave to lie on top of him, holding his skinny hips nice and tight. His thumbs are tucked into the grooves of Dave's pelvic bones, prominent through his red trousers. "Don't believe in anything that's not right in front of me."

"Lucky me, then," Dave says, his voice lifting to make it into a question. He rolls his shoulders back, lifts his ass, and succeeds in getting the cape spread over both of them.

"I don't think..." Finn wants to say there's no luck anywhere to be found, not here, dumped and forgotten in a prison with no walls, no guards, just silence and cold. He bites his lip as Dave squirms against him; Dave's pale locs tumble over half his face and brush Finn's cheek. His breath is a little sweet, warm against Finn's face. "No, I am. Lucky."

"Fuck, how are you so rad?" Dave asks and kisses him.

Rad, from radical, of the root. Like "wicked", more of Dave's ironic slang in which you say the opposite of what you mean. Thereby a doubled system of meaning and contradiction is established, with deniability built right in.

Dave kisses like it's the first and last time, every time. Maybe that's part of his self-described godhood, or maybe he's every bit as cold and lonely and needful as Finn is. He kisses hard, and wriggles, and his cape keeps them warm as he reaches between them to stroke Finn's dick in time with his tongue pushing deeper into Finn's mouth.

He's alight all over, each pore prickling, sparks speeding between them. Finn can't catch his breath, just pushes up into Dave's hand and grabs at his ass, kissing back the best he can. 

This rhythm is familiar, too, below words, impossible to ironize. It's their bodies working and rocking, their mouths sucking and throbbing, hands clutching tight. It's the way a flush builds on Dave's cheeks, darkens him, to taste like fire under Finn's mouth, how Finn's legs fall open, then close around Dave's thighs so they're grinding together in Dave's grip.

"Fuck, _please_ ," Dave whispers and buries his face against Finn's neck as he comes; the spill of sticky heat pulls Finn closer, then over, and his head falls back as he calls out wordless and hoarse to the bunk above.

He wants to believe they'll get out of here. He has to. 

Dave curves around him, drumming his fingers on Finn's chest.

Soon, Finn hopes. He'll have hope and use it.

**Author's Note:**

> Asked about his age, Dave quotes -  
> "I'm only nineteen...", Mobb Deep, "Shook Ones Pt. II"  
> "As a kid I killed two adults, I’m too advanced...", Kendrick Lamar, "Hol' Up"


End file.
